


Blurred Lines

by AverageWehraboo



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Great War, Literally everyone is an OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25264702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AverageWehraboo/pseuds/AverageWehraboo
Summary: The Great War has just begun, and a young Thomas Meyer has been conscripted into the Mantle Revolutionary Army. Good clashes with evil, nationalism clashes with remorse, and the sense of duty with self-preservation. Is Thomas a victim of oppression, or is he an oppressor himself?





	1. The Signature

Thomas slowly rocked in a chair. He was only 17, yet he did so as if he were an old man. He stared forward at the wall and ceiling, absently studying the sight before him. The room was painted white, as were all of the rooms in the apartment. It was plain and uniform, an example of Mantle's manifesto.

He lived in government-provided housing. There was no rent – the program was paid for with taxes – but the result was rather plain. Everything in the house was quite cheap-looking, though reliable. The rocking chair, however, was a lone exception. It was passed down to his father by his grandfather, it being an example of the old days before the new government replaced the empire.

Thomas' absent train of thought was interrupted by the door's creaking as it opened. He looked over to see his mother coming into the room.

"Thomas, dear, the news is on. I thought you might want to hear it."

"Coming, Ma," Thomas responded. He climbed out of the chair and through the doorway to enter the living room. It was quite small, but it fit a small family. A large room was a luxury, and luxury had been rightly done away with.

The walls in the short hallway were lined with portraits. They were all photos, of course. Paintings were a thing of the past. Though most of them were of figures that the party approved of, there were a few exceptions. There was one of his father, for instance. There was also a landscape photo of the five of them in their old home, which the government had since demolished for more farmland.

Thomas' eyes then spotted another framed picture. This one was a landscape of himself and his girlfriend, Anya. He looked at it with a smile before proceeding.

Thomas sat down on the sofa in front of the radio, next to his mother and two younger brothers. A brief instrumental excerpt from the anthem played before an announcer spoke.

"Here is the nightly news update for today – April 9th. Our correspondents in the southern colonies report that the conflict continues between their settlers. In fact, the foreign fighters are stated to have formed into an organized militia to coordinate their terrorization of Mantle's settlements. Allegedly, these fighters have been observed using equipment that belongs to the Vale Royal Army."

They murmured about this fact. Was Vale endorsing this clear barbarism? It wouldn't be below them. His siblings said nothing about the matter, choosing instead to look around the room with a mild look of discomfort. They were disinterested in the news, and he noticed that they weren't wearing their party insignia. Thomas' brothers didn't believe in the party, nor in anything else. They were lucky to not get reported.

"To help our settlers better defend themselves from these unprovoked and deadly attacks," the newscaster continued, "Mantle's army reports that the 5th and 6th infantry regiments are currently underway to establish a defense in the colonies. Other measures such as increased conscription are being discussed, but those are merely hypothetical and might not be warranted as of yet.

"When interviewed, a government official expressed the administration's discomfort in such an action but stated that this new militia has forced their hand. The government has pledged to end this inexcusable campaign against Mantle's citizens, stating that their previous inaction on the matter will be counterbalanced by an immediate intervention enacted by the 5th and 6th regiments.

"The administration states their hopes that this conflict will not escalate into a war between Mantle and the other kingdoms, but they would never withdraw their settlers even if Vale were to demand that they do. Mantle will continue to pursue a peaceful solution unless the other kingdoms force them to engage in war. The Empire always warned her peers not to test her, and that carries over to the new government. Mantle never yields. Now for the weather."

"The weather bureau has issued another blizzard warning for the following provinces," another newscaster started, before Thomas' mother turned off the radio.

"I can't imagine what it must be like to be one of those settlers," he empathized. "They go and build their homes, and towns surrounding them, only to have them all torn down by a bunch of Valeans who want it for themselves."

"Much of the islands are open land, there's plenty to go around," Ma responded. "But the Valeans just want ours. Are they trying to start a war?"

"Well, if the government decides to change their mind and make the first move, I wouldn't blame them. The empire was reluctant to start a war, and look where that got them."

"Whatever comes, I just don't want to have to sacrifice anything," Ma admitted. "Rations, drafting, higher taxes – they all seem to be punishing common folk for the actions of the people up top."

"It's not a lot for them to ask for," Thomas countered. "We've already gotten rid of needless luxury, why shouldn't we continue to do that? If the army needs resources, give it to them. It's a fair trade, I'd say, since the government funds the public more than any other would."

Though they didn't notice, his siblings had gotten up and left the room. Thomas and his mother had gotten political again.

"But there are bigger sacrifices," Ma argued. "Money is money, and food is food. They're important, but they're just things. Objects can be replaced, but what about your life? What if you get drafted as the news said? You wouldn't be asked to go and fight and die. You'd just get told to by some stranger in a suit. Do you want that?" she asked, wiping away some tears from her eyes.

Thomas stopped to think. He already knew the answer, but tried to word it so that he didn't worry his mother. Thomas wouldn't call himself a zealot, but he could understand that some causes are worth dying for.

"Imagine if everyone thought that way. Nobody would risk their lives for anything. The revolution? It never happened. We live under the emperor, serving at his will. I can accept fighting to prevent something like that."

"But would others accept it? What about your friends, your family, me?"

"You just don't like risk of any kind," Thomas accused. "You grew up in the imperial age, ruled by idiots who only had their job because their parents did. They were scared of anything that was different to the norm, just like you are now."

"Are you saying that it isn't my duty as a mother to make sure you're safe, just because a war's being fought halfway across the world?" she yelled. "Do you want the entire family to go extinct as everyone gets drafted? First your father, then you, and then your brothers!"

Their exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door. Thomas stared at the door with a look of shock on his face. Had the neighbors heard the noise? It wasn't right for a family to argue like this, and Mrs. Wilson would be eager to get extra rations for reporting them.

Eager to escape the argument, Thomas' mother rose from the sofa and quickly approached the door, opening it with a squeak from the hinges.

In front of the door was a man in military uniform, appearing to be a junior officer in the army. He held a single sheet of paper on a clipboard, alongside a pen.

"Ma'am, is there a Comrade Thomas Meyer here?"

"Yes, sir. He's right over there," his mother said after a moment. Thomas then got up, slowly approaching the officer.

"Sir?" he asked cautiously, believing he already knew why the man was here.

"Congratulations, young man. You have been selected for service in the Mantle Revolutionary Army. Just sign here and you can have the highest privilege of serving your country."

Thomas looked around, now shaking. His mother looked like she was about to faint, but his expression didn't equal hers. After a moment or two, he mustered his courage and looked the man in the eye.

"Yes, sir," he obeyed with some hesitation. Even if he didn't want to join the army, Thomas had little choice in the matter. He might as well pretend to be willing. The officer handed him the pen and clipboard, and Thomas then signed his life away.


	2. Boot Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas thinks about his last two weeks at boot camp, before being sent to the firing range with his comrades. Drill instructors then discover how good of a shot he is.

##### May 30th, Before the War

The mess hall was full of recruits, packed in like sardines at long tables built with half as many occupants in mind. Thomas and his training squad were sharing their MREs. With logistics being what they were, for every two recruits, there was only one ration between them. The recent influx of conscripts that came as Mantle came closer to war was doing no favors keeping the trainees well-supplied.

The issue of personal space was only made more apparent as they had finished their meals. Today was a Monday, so everyone had more time in the mess hall to talk after finishing their food as the drill inspectors themselves got inspected. However, Thomas' table was quite silent.

Thomas seemed to be treated differently by his colleagues. They lowered their voices when he passed by, and in fact, seemed to be rather nervous. Thomas' fellow recruits also avoided him when they could. He couldn't tell why, but it all started last week.

Four days ago, Thomas overheard a squadmate admitting his beliefs against the government's foreign policy, claiming that they failed to consider more peaceful options before choosing to mobilize. Thomas had, of course, reported this to his officer in private. However, everyone evidently knew what Thomas had done.

Thinking about this in silence, Thomas decided that the incident had to be the cause. He had no concrete proof, but his fellow recruits were behaving as if they were secretly harboring similar ideas to that of their disappeared comrade. Looking at them now, Thomas wasn't sure what he should do. He felt an obligation to relay his observations to an officer, but they had been his friends — at least before they seemed to become scared of him.

A yell had interrupted Thomas's internal monologue. He jerked his head toward the source of the sound, seeing that a group of drill sergeants had entered the mess hall. Realizing that everyone else was already standing at attention, Thomas froze in fear for a second and then rushed onto his feet to mimic his squadmates.

"Lunchtime is now over, recruits," a drill sergeant yelled. "Form up, single file!" The recruits obeyed to the best of their ability, trying to keep it as straight as possible towards the mess hall's main door. "Goddamnit, kids! I know you were held back in first grade but this is some preschool shit. Don't you know what a straight line is, children?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the recruits shouted.

"Don't be a-fibbing, kiddos! Honesty is one of the army's core traits," the sergeant responded. "Even a toddler can memorize that. Can you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good! Maybe you all aren't complete failures," he said. "Now, can you be good boys and straighten this line out?"

"Sir, no, sir!" the recruits responded, recognizing the instructor's trick.

"See? Honesty! Now let's get going, time to see if the rifle recoil propels you kindergarteners all the way to Vale. Platoon, forward… march!" Hearing the order, Thomas and his fellow recruits marched out of the mess hall, past the PT yard, and to the range.

"Halt! Left… face," the instructor ordered. Following it, the platoon stopped and turned to the left, turning the single-file column into a shoulder-to-shoulder rank that faced the range.

"Now, this, children," he started while pointing to another approaching sergeant. "is a quartermaster. This one has been tamed, trained to deal with you recruits' bullshit, but you don't wanna fuck with one in the wild. They gotta give you your equipment either way, but if you act like a turd, they'll give you equipment that's as good as a turd. You got that, children?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good! Now, quartermaster, hand out the toys." Nodding, the quartermaster along with a few assistants handed out rifles to the platoon. "You're keeping it shouldered, good! I didn't think y'all had the memory capacity to achieve that feat! Unlike last week, though, you're actually going to be shooting these firesticks. Doesn't that fact give you a boner?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"That's the spirit, soldiers! Fall out and take firing positions," the drill instructor ordered. In response, Thomas and his comrades fell out of formation. They moved to the firing booths, waiting for further orders.

"Platoon, ready arms and take aim!" At that, they unshouldered their weapons and put them in a firing position. Then, they chose a target and aimed at it. "In a volley, fire!" All at once, the recruits fired their rifles. However, most missed with the exception of Thomas. The man to his left failed to compensate for the wind, and the recruit to Thomas' right overcompensated.

"Goddammit, platoon!" the instructor cursed. "I can't even trust you to hit a close target! What's next, will you forget how to tie your fucking shoes? Let's try that again!"

They went through the same drill and fired off another volley. Again, Thomas and a few others hit their targets while most struggled to. For many of them, it was their first time firing a gun. Their instructor observed this fact.

"Meyer, Decker, Schreiner, and Wirtz; fire at further targets." They then fired again. Everyone improved in their accuracy, and Thomas hit the furthest target away flawlessly.

"Meyer, have you suddenly grown a brain? That's a marksman target, how'd you hit it with iron sights?" he inquired.

"I hunted with my father, sir," Thomas answered.

"I see. As you were." The platoon fired for another twenty minutes until most of them could hit a target consistently enough for their first time firing.

"Meyer, come with me. Rest of you, form a single rank!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The rest of the platoon left their firing booths and reformed into the earlier line. The quartermaster came by to collect their weapons, and Thomas also handed his off. Afterward, he followed the drill sergeant into the building.

"Now, Meyer. The sniper corps are scraping the barrel; they need more men. You might just be able to get in with your accuracy, so I'm sending you their way. Don't get surprised if you don't, though — your test scores technically don't qualify, but as I said, they're scraping the barrel. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't, sir," Thomas pledged.

"You've always been obedient, Meyer. A patriot, too. Don't let that make you overconfident or mindless."

"Sir, no, sir," he exclaimed.

"Sniper school is hard, and the job after is too. Don't expect to be prepared for it."

"I'll try my best, sir."

"As a soldier always should, Meyer."


	3. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After boot camp, Thomas goes back home to his girlfriend.

##### July 3rd, Before the War

Thomas let out a sigh as he exited the door and breathed in some fresh air. He placed his side cap on his head and walked away from the training camp with his fellow former trainees. They wore standard field blouses, a tight-fitting buttoned tunic colored greenish-grey. All of their shoulder boards indicated the rank of Corporal, as all snipers were initially ranked. The men all wore marksmanship badges on their left breasts, but Thomas also had a loyalty badge.

Walking away from the camp, Thomas noticed that his comrades were still distancing themselves from him. Despite the size of the horde, there was a several-foot gap in any given direction between Thomas and everyone else. He supposed there was a reason that he was the only one who was awarded the loyalty badge. Thomas was glad that they were no longer his problem, but he suspected they thought he was their problem.

He was also glad about another thing. For the month in which he trained, he hadn't seen Anya. Although Thomas often agreed with the party in his disapproval of luxurious indulgence, he hypocritically indulged in her. For each day, he only missed her more, and so he hurried to the station for a train back home.

At the apartment building's door, Thomas attempted to sigh again. However, it became a cough as he hadn't adapted back to the city air. The camp he had attended was in the countryside, and the air there was much fresher. Although the seemingly-endless apartment blocks surrounding him were painted white, the polluted air added a dull grey tint to them. Mantle had modernized rapidly since the Imperial age's end, but it came at the environment's cost.

Pushing away that frighteningly-treasonous thought, Thomas took off his cap and went up to his family's apartment. After pulling out his set of keys, he discovered that the door was already unlocked. Thomas opened the door to find Anya sitting on the couch. Immediately, she excitedly jumped up from the couch and ran over to hug Thomas. She had clearly missed him as much as he did her.

"I missed you so much," she exclaimed into his chest. Thomas hummed in agreement, both of them smiling. For the rest of his leave, they'd finally be together again. Nothing could separate him from Anya, he proclaimed internally.

After a minute or two, the couple separated. Thomas could finally relax, unbuttoning his collar and sitting down on the couch next to Anya. One of his hands linked with one of hers and the other stroked Anya's hair.

"Did you get my letters?" asked Thomas.

"Yes, but you didn't seem to get mine."

"Army bureaucracy probably ate them somewhere along the way," he reckoned. They then sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them happy with the other's presence.

"Our anniversary's coming up," Anya said. "What'll we do for it?"

"My leave will be over by then. It's just a few days, unfortunately. I can have some chocolates sent to you or something, to remind you I haven't forgotten."

"Better be the good chocolates, now that you have a proper income," she joked.

"There'll be more when I get deployed — hazard pay."

"Hazard pay? I thought you'd stay at a nearby base for a while, and then leave."

"No. They made me a sniper, remember? It'd be useless to train a marksman and keep him back home. I'll be at the front of… whatever's coming," asked Thomas.

"Just promise me one thing, Thomas," said Anya with a serious tone. "Don't die for some colony halfway across the planet. Promise me you'll come back." Tears now covered her face.

"I can't promise that — but if it helps, I wouldn't die for a colony. I'd be fighting for Mantle, for you," Thomas reassured. However, that only seemed to make it worse. Anya's hand left his, covering her tear-ridden face with her palms.

"Why did you have to be a sniper? You'll either get killed or kill people who are having this conversation right now. Somewhere in Vale, a soldier is assuring his girlfriend he's not going to die, and you're gonna kill him," she snapped, removing her hands from her face to look at him.

"It's not the same thing," Thomas stammered. "They're the enemy, they fight for a tyrant. I don't."

"Oh, even now, you have to praise the party. You're just as nationalist as those Imperial pricks. They even gave you a shiny medal for your loyalty," Anya sneered, pointing at his loyalty badge and flicking tears onto his field blouse in doing so.

"What you're saying is—" Thomas started.

"Treason? You're committing treason right now — against me. You promised that we wouldn't let anything separate us, but look at you now! According to your mom, you seemed glad when you were conscripted."

"You're being selfish, you know that? There's more besides us. Many people died in the revolution. They needed to. If every man wasn't brave enough to risk death for his country, then we'd still have an Emperor," he yelled.

"You're just like them! You're just like all of the party members, the political officers. You insist you're not like the Imperials, but now they're sending people to die to keep a colony under their control. I've tolerated this for long enough. You've always made remarks against 'those dirty Imperialists,' you've always been so obedient with the block warden."

"I've tolerated you! I ignored your remarks, I didn't report them to the warden like I always should've. I let love blind me to the imperialism that hides behind your face. Get out! Get the fuck out of my apartment!" he spat.

And that she did, jumping off the couch and rushing out of the apartment. Thomas too got up, ripping the picture of Anya off the wall and throwing it onto the ground. The glass shattered, just like their relationship.

Thomas sat back down, a ring in his ears replacing the loudness of their argument. Soon, that'd fade too. Only silence was left. He was sure he was right. He was sure his now-ex girlfriend was a traitor. And yet, he found himself wiping tears away from his face.


	4. Landfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas arrives at an overseas colony, beginning his first mission.

##### July 3rd, Before the War

On the transport ship, Thomas had a lot of time to think. While he did miss Anya, he didn't use his time to ponder whether he was right. After all, there was no question in his mind. Thomas was right, and Anya's values were not compatible with the state's. What he did ponder was why he still wanted her despite this obvious treason.

Thomas knew that he should've ceased these thoughts immediately. Anya was a danger to him and Mantle. Anyone who supported the old government was an imperialist, and associating with an imperialist could lead to him becoming one. He had not only associated with an enemy of the state but also slept with one, and now he found himself wanting to do so again.

As the ship went up and down with the waves, a thought infiltrated Thomas' mind: hopefully, this incident with Anya was like the ship's movement. Their relationship had its ups and downs, and this was just one down. At the same time, however, he knew that he shouldn't miss Anya. If she turned out to miss him and re-initiated contact, then Thomas should cut that contact and report her for treason.

Thomas looked down from his bunk as an infantryman ran out of the barracks to the head, trying to keep himself from vomiting. Of course, the soldier wouldn't make it. They were on a large ship — 160 meters long and with capacity for 1,500 troopers, plus room for cargo. He could hear the man give up halfway to the head, his sea-sickness manifesting itself on the floor.

As a collective punishment, the sergeant would make everyone clean it up, rather than just the sea-sick rifleman. That had already happened several times on the long journey, which had lasted over a week. There were just a few more hours to go, however, and then they'd be in Torima.

Torima was one of Mantle's colonies, directly north of the city of Vale and southwest of Vytal. Because of its proximity to Vale, Torima was a strategically-valuable territory, and so Vale disputed Mantle's ownership of it as everyone in Mantle predicted. It was in Vale's nature to steal what wasn't theirs — especially stealing from what they considered to be a threat to their government. They were all imperialists, after all, and imperialists were naturally afraid of Mantle's revolution. But just as naturally, the revolution would eventually topple Vale's monarchy as it thankfully did the same with Mantle's.

"Meyer," said a sergeant, entering the barracks.

"Yes, Comrade Sergeant?" answered Thomas, after getting off the bunk and standing at attention.

"You're needed in the recon office in the ship's command section. I'll lead you there."

"Yes, Comrade Sergeant," said Thomas, following him out of the barracks. "What for?"

"I don't know specifically. It's the recon office — you know how they do things, everything's classified. They're probably just going to give you your orders in advance of the landing."

"Probably sitting in a tree all day to confirm that nothing's happening. That's reconnaissance for you, according to the instructors at sniping school."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. I reckon that Vale invention — the 'airplane,' they call it — will make ground recon obsolete. At least you'll still have other duties as a sniper. The scouts will be out of a job."

Entering the command section, Thomas and the sergeant passed a captain. None of them saluted, only nodding. Saluting an officer suggested that one was superior to the other, in a hierarchical structure. That was no longer the case. Though a corporal had to follow a captain's orders, an officer was no longer superior as a person to an enlisted man. Such an idea had been purged alongside the nobles' monopoly over the officer corps. Indeed, the revolution purged the nobles themselves.

Unauthorized to enter the area, the sergeant stopped. Thomas continued into the recon office. It was full of NCOs manning radio equipment and moving markers on a map of Torima. The room was filled with voices along with the click-clacking of typewriters and telegraphs. While looking around the room, Thomas noticed that a staff officer was waving him over, and so he walked toward the man.

"Comrade Major," stammered Thomas. This was a high-ranking officer, at least to an enlisted man. He must've been an adjunct to the battalion's commander, probably leading reconnaissance and thus the unit's snipers. He'd probably interact with the Major frequently, so Thomas decided he better not make a poor first impression.

"Here are your orders," started the Major, leading Thomas over to the map. "When this ship lands, you'll be attached to B company headquarters and moved here." The officer moved a piece on the map, which represented Thomas, through a forest and to its edge. "Take a position in the trees. You'll report if anything's suspicious in the area ahead."

"Yes, Comrade Major," obeyed Thomas, while looking the map over. "Will I be going alone?"

"No, of course not. You'll be escorted by a scout squad."

"Good. Where can I get my equipment?"

"I'll have someone take you to the armory a few minutes before landing."

"Thank you, comrade Major," said Thomas before leaving the area.

A few hours later, the ship docked at Torima. Fully equipped from the armory, Thomas was ready for his first field operation as a sniper. Although there were no known hostiles nearby — and any hostile would be unskilled insurgents — Thomas was still in a bit of danger. They were moving ahead, outside of the main force's view, into a forest where they could get ambushed at any time. At least he had the scouts to protect him, who had gathered next to him next to the docks.

"Are we going?" their leader asked, equal in rank to Thomas.

"Yes. Let's go," he responded. They proceeded away from the village at the docks, and into the forest. There was a trail to guide them, but it made their movements predictable to any ambusher. After a few minutes of walking, they heard a bear's roar ahead. Immediately, the men dashed to the sides, taking cover in the trees aside the trail. Thomas climbed his tree, observing what was ahead.

"Damn," he said while doing so.

"What?" asked a scout.

"Some Grimm's getting ripped apart by a bear."

"So a young one, then. The younger Grimm are more aggressive, especially against territorial wildlife," recited a scout from some textbook, probably. "Not much of a threat."

"Don't get cocky," Thomas warned. "Grimm travel in groups. They're probably led by an Alpha, too. They won't look for us specifically, since we have no aura, but let's not draw attention to ourselves."

"Agreed. Let's keep moving, but aside the trail," ordered the scout corporal. The group continued toward Thomas' destination, staying next to the trail but not walking on it.

Eventually, they reached the forest's end. Thomas climbed a tall tree to get a good vantage point. In front of him was a grassland, which transitioned into a hillside about 200 meters out. The trail they had walked aside led to a village half that distance away. Thomas' vantage point gave him a bird's eye view of that village. Thomas first looked for suspicious individuals on the hell, but he found none. It looked like there were traders going to another village, and that was it.

He then looked at the village itself. It was full of people, and it looked like there was some sort of festival underway. People dressed in colorful clothing, though conservatively-covering, and houses were decorated. Men courted women, and people were giving gifts to one another. Despite their primitive lifestyle, the villagers seemed to be content.

That was with the exception of one man. Unlike everyone else, his clothing was plain white when everyone else wore something more colorful. The man's face showed nervousness and agitation, increasing as he approached the festival. His nervousness climaxed before he pulled a device out from his robe — a dust explosive, with a timer. TIme seemed to slow down.

Realizing what was happening, Thomas pulled his rifle toward the man, desperately priming the bolt and disabling the safety. Thomas fired the shot, but he hadn't correctly aimed in the rush and hit a non-vital area. The bomber fell to the ground, clutching a bleeding shoulder. The man's other hand went to the explosive. Thomas primed another round and took aim.

The man yelled out, though it was inaudible to Thomas due to the distance. What was audible, however, was the explosion that followed. All he could see in the scope was the fireball and dust cloud. A sonic clap was also audible even at his distance.

In shock, Thomas tore his head away from the scope, letting out a gasp. He could faintly hear the screams of those who were lucky not to be caught in the blast, and he resisted the urge to scream himself. The village was covered by dust, visible even without magnification. Thomas didn't dare look in the scope again, knowing what he'd see.


	5. Turkey Shoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas shoots an enemy general and gets hunted down.

##### July 8th, Before the War

Thomas laid prone on a hilltop in the woods. Although he wore no natural camouflage, his greenish-grey uniform provided good-enough cover. It’d be difficult for any sniper to notice him, though there weren’t going to be any besides himself. No matter how much they pretended to be a professional army, the insurgency was a disorganized band of traitors that entirely depended on the Valean imperialists. They didn’t have snipers, and they had no way of detecting one.

“This is going to be a turkey shoot,” Thomas proclaimed in a hushed voice.

He took out his binoculars and looked at the enemy camp, in the valley ahead of him and to the north. He counted about fifty rebel “soldiers” in five rows. They were all standing at attention in line formation, their rifles lazily lowered and uniforms made somewhat clean. If the men were standing at attention, however poorly they were doing so, their officers had to be somewhere nearby.

And indeed, Thomas spotted them a few seconds later. They slowly walked in front of the first row, judging the ragtag platoon’s appearance. He saw them criticizing their soldiers, adopting Vale’s perfectionist attitude while lacking any actual perfection. The officers wore identically-ragged “uniforms” to their men, except with cheap knockoffs of aiguillettes and peaked caps that seemed to be taken from a child’s costume.

“Fucking idiots,” Thomas whispered. During training, an instructor had warned him not to become arrogant. However, this was not arrogance, but instead obvious superiority. He could shoot an officer right now and none of the rebels would know what to do, but he waited. They weren’t his targets.

Suppressing the urge to kill an officer and watch the enemy turkeys scatter, Thomas waited another few minutes, until a few officers walked away from the platoon. He followed them with his binoculars, spotting another officer on horseback. Unlike the other’s silver aiguillettes, this one’s was gold. He also wore comically-large epaulets, matching the aiguillettes both in color and in lacking quality. This man was a general, and he was Thomas’ target.

“Eyes on the prize,” said Thomas, lowering his binoculars. He picked up his rifle, disabled the safety, and chambered a round. After adjusting for the wind, Thomas took aim at the general, who was stopped behind the insurgent formation. The man looked backward, seemingly waiting for someone.

Thomas took the shot. It hit center-mass, the general grasping his wound and then falling off the horse seconds after. The militiamen all ran for cover, while officers inspected the body. As the general fell to the south, they used their subpar detective skills to conclude that the shot came from the north, when Thomas was actually in the opposite direction. Thus, all the insurgents hurried went away from Thomas to search for him.

A couple of officers stayed, however, standing behind a thin tree that they wrongly thought to be sufficient cover. He was about to shoot one before he noticed that they were talking to another man, who wore a red coat and breeches with a peaked cap. Thomas blinked, realizing that it was a Valean officer.

He had a look at the Valean’s shoulders, seeing shoulder boards with a red stripe and one gold pip. This was a Lieutenant Colonel, meaning either that Vale had sent a senior adjunct to teach the militia to fight properly, or there was a battalion of actual soldiers nearby. Thomas didn’t know which was worse.

Thomas watched the Lieutenant Colonel move over to the dead general, inspecting his wound. After conversing with the insurgent officers, he pointed to the south. They all ran toward the platoon, and out of Thomas’ sight. The rifle shook in his hands, but the rest of his body was frozen in place. In just a minute, those militiamen were going to be right on top of him. They might be unskilled, but they had numbers. Hastily getting up and gathering his equipment, Thomas ran like hell.

Out of breath, Thomas was forced to stop running after a minute. He sat down atop a log, but it slightly moved under him. Thinking of an idea, Thomas got up. He looked around for things that he could cover himself with. There were logs all around, and he could scatter some vegetation on top.

Using the debris, Thomas made himself some temporary concealment. It took several minutes, but luckily, the militia’s search parties weren’t very efficient. To be honest, Thomas knew that it wouldn’t hold up against a skilled manhunter. However, the rebels shouldn’t fit that description, and he was counting on that. That drill instructor scolded Thomas in his head for making such an assumption.

He crawled between the logs, putting some foliage above him. With nothing else to focus on, he started feeling the effects of fatigue. Thomas’s arms, legs, and lungs all ached, protesting their overuse. At least all he had to do now was wait for the militia to finish their search. Hopefully, they wouldn’t find him in doing so.

He laid still, listening for the enemy’s approach. All Thomas could hear was his ticking wristwatch, the ambiance of nature, and his own breathing. He anxiously jumped at every rustled leaf and every bird call. The wait was agonizingly long. It felt like hours. Thomas could look at his watch to check how much time had passed, but he didn’t dare move.

Why was he so afraid? These were mere insurgents. Thomas was superior to them. He would survive without a scratch, as the idiots were practically blind. But no matter how much he told himself that, Thomas felt proper fear for the first time in his life.

Thomas’s attempts to wrangle his fear almost prevented him from noticing the approaching army. He could now hear officers barking orders, and men aggressively marching around. Thomas had killed their general. Would he pay an equal price?

As the footsteps got closer and closer, his training kicked in. Thomas began to control his breathing, and he made sure to stay absolutely still. He might be spotted if he brought attention to him, as the camouflage was admittedly poor for lack of time to set it up. Thomas hoped that the enemy would just glance over him and that the enemy was inexperienced as he thought they were. Being incorrect about that could easily mean his death.

Thomas heard them searching the area behind him. Just then, he noticed that a leaf was against his face. It itched. He instinctively moved to push it away. Thomas caught himself quickly, but not before the movement caused a twig to snap under his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. The rebels behind him stopped moving. They must’ve heard the noise. If he stayed still, they might dismiss it and move on. But if Thomas made any more noise, he was dead.

“Did you hear that?” asked a rebel in Mantle’s language.

“Yeah. Sounded like a person,” replied someone else. Thomas heard around four enemies approaching him, searching the area. Dread filled every part of his mind, causing him to lose control of his breathing. Thomas wasn’t hyperventilating yet, but his slow and quiet breathing became shallow and disorderly. Was he really going to die like this: hiding in the dirt, terrified of some disorganized insurgents?

The insurgents were just a few meters away. Thomas heard them coming toward him, ever so slowly. They could be staring at him right now, but moving his head to look at them would be dangerous. Any second now, they could shoot him. He’d have no prior warning. He felt as if someone was breathing on the back of his neck.

Suddenly, he heard a thud to the rebels’ left. From the sound of it, a Beowolf had pounced on them.

“Grimm!” shouted the rebels. They ran for cover, hurriedly getting their rifles aimed. The rebels attempted to fire, but only clicks came from their guns. They had forgotten to chamber a round, Thomas guessed. They quickly realized their mistake, priming their rifles’ bolts. At that moment, the creature charged, but the rebels quickly shot it dead. They were good for _something_ , at least.

While the enemy was able to kill this one creature, Thomas knew that the Grimm traveled in packs. If several Beowolves attacked, the rebels would be overwhelmed, and Thomas was not in a position to defend himself. Even if he survived the rebels, the Grimm could pick him off once they moved on. What if they were stalking him right now?

Thomas heard the enemy shouting and running toward his location. The gunshots must’ve caused a panic. Although he didn’t exactly enjoy that, he knew that he mustn’t lose control. With all these people around, it wouldn’t take a lot for Thomas to be detected.

He heard crunching leaves and numerous footfalls. There must’ve been a dozen people right behind him. If the state hadn’t abolished religion, he’d be praying to God for the enemy to remain distracted.

“What were those gunshots? Did you find the shooter?” asked an officer.

“No, sir. A Beowolf tried to get us. No casualties, other than it,” reported another insurgent.

“You said we were done with this area?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s move on. Our shooter probably snuck away.” The officer then shouted for the men to form up, so that they could move along. Thomas almost sighed in relief, but he caught himself. Even now, someone could glance at the foliage and notice him.

Fortunately, they didn’t. He heard the rebels forming up into columns and stomping away. Letting go the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, Thomas was relieved. He waited a bit before getting up and wiping a layer of sweat off of his forehead. This was the closest he had ever been to death.

Thomas snuck away, careful not to make too much noise. He’d probably be fine as long as he didn’t yell or shoot anything, however. He removed a paper map from a pocket, using his finger to trace the best possible path to the command post. As he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, Thomas failed to notice the Beowolf hiding behind a tree.


End file.
